


I Know We're Not Everlasting

by cinnamontoastandtears



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: (Paul is thinking too much), Angst, Fluff, I mean kind of, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inner Dialogue-ing, Jane simply doesn't exist, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Other, Sort Of, canon compliance ?, if Paul cries anymore he'll dry up, implied infidelity, who knows what it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29982291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamontoastandtears/pseuds/cinnamontoastandtears
Summary: It's the early morning of December 9, 1980, and Paul's just heard the news.It's what prompts him to drink half a bottle of whiskey and fall into a lucid dream.It's a perfect piece of a day from 1965, and Paul doesn't ever want to wake up.But... is this really just a dream?
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	I Know We're Not Everlasting

**Author's Note:**

> hi, so this story was the product of me sitting down and being like, "i want to write some angst." 
> 
> it was initially much shorter of an idea, and i really don't know how it turned into this but whatever
> 
> disclaimer here, this story references the following things within the lives of the beatles: their breakup, their drug use, george and mo's affair, ringo's eventual alcoholism, and obviously the murder of john lennon (though to be fair, some of that stuff is pretty vague)
> 
> so without further ado: this thing i spent way too long writing for your reading pleasure
> 
> (title stolen from A World Alone by Lorde)

It couldn’t possibly be real. 

I mean, they were joking, right?

He wasn’t really… just in the hospital. They didn’t know. They didn’t know what they were talking about. They didn’t know. 

No. 

No. 

All of Paul’s thoughts screamed with no. Not now… not like this… he couldn’t- he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe and he felt lightheaded. Where was he? He couldn’t remember. He went out of the room he was in and down the stairs. Was this his house? It didn’t look like his house. But what did his house look like? It didn’t matter because John… because _John._

His friend’s face was the last thought to swim in his mind before his vision went blurry, and he blacked out in what he guessed was his living room. 

When he awoke, he didn’t know how long he’d been out for. It had been night before, hadn’t it? The clock on the side table, (so this _was_ his house), read 5:45 a.m. and Paul groaned. He needed… his brain stumbled for something it could want and alcohol was what it reached first. 

_Alcohol_ , Paul thought vaguely, heading straight to the liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and removed the cap. It was half-empty already, and took a big gulp of the fiery liquid. 

He sat down in an armchair and took another sip. Linda would be mad if she came down and found him like this, but at this point, Linda was the furthest thing from his mind. 

All he could think about was… well, _him_. 

It almost suited Paul, all the fucking misery. It wouldn’t have, if this was still 1965. But it wasn’t anymore. Gone were the 60s, the 70s too… Paul felt old. Thirty-eight was hardly old at all, but Paul still felt old. Old enough to have a close friend, (ha!), die… and _death_. 

_What a funny thing, death_ , he thought. Death which he had been confronted with time and time again, Stu and Brian and even himself… John didn’t figure in with them. John meant more to Paul than he meant to himself. John meant more to Paul than anyone.

It wasn’t fair. 

Just as they were starting to… maybe be friends or whatever it was that they were again… he was _gone_. 

Treacherously gone. 

Paul was upset. He was angry. He could feel himself start to get drunk as the whiskey made his way into his system. He wasn’t crying. Crying came later, it would come, Paul was sure of it, but now… now he just turned away from it all. 

He wanted to go back… just, go back… back before it was ever a problem… back to when they were _happy_. 

Back… 

Paul leaned back in the armchair, placed the now-empty bottle down on the floor, and closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, his mind faltered. 

He wasn’t in his house anymore. No, now he was distinctly in… the studio? _Their_ studio. 

He was slumped across random slips of paper, _lyrics_ , he realized. He lifted his head up and looked closely at them… _In My Life, I’m Looking Through You_ … What was this place? It couldn’t be their studio at EMI, could it? That was… more than fifteen years ago. That had already happened. 

But… 

“Hey,” George said. _George?_ “Hey, Paul!”

Paul turned around. There was George, standing in the door to the hall, holding a bag of sandwiches, already having opened one and taken a bite. Paul stared at him. He looked so… young. There were no smoke lines on his face, and he didn’t have his mustache and he didn’t _hate_ Paul. They were still friends. 

Paul had begun to cry. There was no use in denying it. He was crying like a baby, tears streaming down his face and pooling in the corners of his mouth. 

George was very confused. 

“Paul, I… Have I done something?” he asked, stepping closer and placing the sandwiches down on the table. 

“No…” Paul sobbed. “No, I just-” he engulfed George in his arms and cried harder into his shoulder. 

George, forgetting whatever confusion he felt for a while, hugged Paul back and patted his head. 

“It’s alrigh’, Paulie,” he soothed, “We all have our days.”

Paul pulled back and looked closely at George’s face. He kissed him on the cheek and hugged him back again, never wanting to let go and not knowing how long his mind was going to let him stay here. 

George was very confused now, and a little embarrassed as well, (though not because of the kiss, just because Paul hadn’t acted this affectionate towards him in a while), and he pulled out of the older man’s arms. 

“Where are the others?” Paul asked, glancing around the studio that was empty except for them. 

“Down at the front still,” George answered, “There were some girls out there that they were talking to.”

“And why didn’t you talk to them? Was little Georgie feeling shy?” he teased, enjoying the way the words fell easily out of him. He had missed this feeling. That fickle feeling of friendship. 

George shot him a playful glare. “I was hungry, wasn’t I?” he answered, picking up his sandwich again. “Besides, I’ve already got myself a girl. I mean, they do too, and John has y-” 

Paul had stopped listening. _Pattie_ . Oh, how Paul’s heart _ached_ . Ached for George and Pattie and Ringo and Mo and even fucking _Eric,_ because at this point, Paul was a walking synonym for grief so why not throw Eric in there as well. 

“I’m going to ask her to marry me,” George said, and Paul was brought back to the present. 

He had done it differently before. He had told Paul in an elevator down to the car. But here in this moment in the studio, it felt just the same. 

“That’s excellent, Geo!” Paul said, and he meant it, even if he knew what would happen to them. _What a strange position to be in_ , Paul thought, _to be able to say something and change things and not knowing whether it would be better to or not_. Though something else told Paul that this moment was removed from whatever had happened before, that anything he said wouldn’t change a thing. 

He had to try though, maybe. 

“You’ll be true to her, won’t you?” Paul asked. 

“What a funny question,” George said, “Of course I will.”

And even if Paul believed him, and God did he want to, he still doubted that the future would cooperate. But he couldn't do anything about that now. That wasn’t the type of person he was anyway, to worry about things like that. 

Ringo and John came up the stairs and through the door then, and Paul looked at them, really looked. 

Ringo first, all his boyish charm still present, no facial hair. Happy and un-betrayed and unburdened with infamy and alcohol. Paul went to him and hugged him, fresh tears springing to his eyes and destroying him all over again. 

Ringo laughed and hugged Paul back.

“Missed us that much? We thought it’d be nice, y’know, to let you sleep.”

“You looked so tired,” John said. _John_. Paul stared at the man that was John Lennon circa late 1965. 

His hair was short, he wasn’t wearing glasses, and like the others, he looked so goddamn _young_. There were things they all didn’t know yet, things they had never seen or knew about, things Paul did. It was suddenly awkward for him to be standing amongst all of them as young as they were, because he was so much older, really. But John’s face, void of time and tears, the face he knew so well… It was all the prompting he needed to stay in this strange dream for a while. 

Paul turned away from Ringo and went straight to John, collapsing into his arms and heaving great sobs now, unable to contain every emotion that was spilling out of him. 

“Calm down, Macca, it’s alrigh’! We’re back now, it’s ok.” But Paul knew it wasn’t, and that was what prompted him to tip his head up and kiss John right there, full on the mouth. It wasn’t like George and Ringo didn’t _know_ , because it would be impossible to keep it a secret from them, but it wasn’t common for Paul and John to engage in PDA _right in front of them_. George gasped and Ringo choked on nothing. 

They weren’t bothered or disgusted or anything, but as it was, this was just so… uncommon. 

John hesitated slightly before closing his eyes and kissing Paul back a little, mouth firmly closed, which Paul guessed was sort of what he deserved for such an unprompted assault. It didn’t matter though, because Paul was kissing John and he hadn’t done this in _forever_ , and God… he was crying again. 

John felt the tears on his cheeks and broke the kiss. “Are you sure, you’re ok, love?” he asked, genuine worry sketched on his features. 

Paul just nodded and hugged him, then stepped back, laughing. 

He was laughing and he was crying, and he collapsed onto the floor. How fucked up was this? Being able to have John hold him one last time, knowing full well he would wake up in his house and John would be gone. 

“Christ, Macca!” John said, “What exactly were you smoking when we were gone?”

“I don’t know what it was, but I would take a hit,” Ringo joked, and, really, if Paul was going to stop crying they all needed to stop fucking talking. 

“Shhh…” he said, and for whatever reason, they listened to him. Paul had forgotten that these were still the days when not every word he said was challenged, where his guidance wasn’t taken as control, and rather as important advice. When he was just listened to, and not ignored. There… he had stopped crying. 

“Could we… could we take a break?” he asked. 

“I don’t know what you would call what it was that we just spent half an hour going to get food during, but I would call it a break,” John laughed. 

“No…” Paul said, “I mean, can we take the whole day off?”

Ringo glanced at George and he raised his eyebrows.

“You know they wouldn’t let us,” George said. 

“Well, we don’t have to tell them,” Paul resolved. 

George and Ringo stared at John, and again Paul had forgotten about the hierarchy in their group. 

“Paul…” John said, “I mean, it would be fun, but we’ve still got that vocal thing on “Girl” and you still have to…”

“Lennon, my love,” Paul said, standing up, grabbing John’s hand, and twirling him around, “There’s no need to fret over that now… we’ll work it out later, I can tell. It won’t really be that hard.” And it wouldn’t. Paul already knew. 

John let go of Paul’s hand and thought it over for a minute. 

“Oh, alrigh’,” he finally agreed, “but if a single fan comes up and asks for an autograph, we’re coming back.”

Paul nodded and made an “x” over his heart, then looked over at George and Ringo. He could tell that they were starting to get excited about the escapade, and for the first time in a long time, Paul felt his heart swell with youthful excitement. 

Luckily Brian was sick today and the studio workers were out for their own lunch break, so Paul got his coat and they went down the back stairs. Before he and John reached the bottom, John pushed him up against the wall and claimed his mouth again, and Paul gasped. 

It was still as quick as last time, but with just a little more passion, and Paul felt himself go a little weak in the knees as John pulled away.  
  


Then John was down the stairs and Paul was left standing there for a moment, which is when he saw the mirror hanging across the hall. 

He examined his face for a second, the way his hair was cut, the small scars leftover from teenager-hood. Paul didn’t like looking in the mirror now. Or at least, in 1980. When he looked all he saw was the face the media wanted to see. When he looked, he didn’t see himself. Though even then there was always the knowledge that this _was_ who he was, and it was paradoxical to look in the mirror right now and see someone who he hadn’t been for a long time. 

Hell, even with all the pictures taken of them, Paul had forgotten what he looked like at twenty-three. He was damn close to crying over his own young appearance, but John called up to him and he broke out of his trance. 

They snuck out the back door, which they didn’t even need to do because no one was there, and John looked out to the street. There was a group of people standing at the corner, and another a little farther down, but they didn’t seem the types to know or at least care enough to bother the four. Once they passed by that little obstacle, the streets were sparsely populated. Actually, there weren’t very many people there at all, which was terribly uncommon for a Wednesday in London. Paul chalked this up to his mind wanting him to have the best possible experience on this stolen afternoon. 

When they were on a particularly open part of the street, John asked the rest of them, “Liverpool Rules?” Of course, they agreed. 

Liverpool Rules was a set of rules they had created for walking around any town really, but specifically their hometown. It had been when they all first became a band, Ringo too, and they spent their off time walking around the streets, trying to find something to do. Paul and John used to play-fight about who had come up with the rules, but Paul would come to realize that it had been a combination of their two ideas, which was often the case. 

When you were walking around with Liverpool Rules, each person had to spend at least one block walking with each of the others, by the end of day everyone had to have bought one thing, and each person got to pick one place they wanted to go. 

“Who’s going first?” Paul asked, deciding to take his first block with Ringo.

“What about you, Paul,” George said, moving up to walk with John, “Since you were all teary back there.”

“Ok…” Paul thought for a second before he decided. “I want to go to a restaurant, because I don’t think I’ve eaten in… well, in a while.”

“I know just the place,” John said, and he and George led the way down the street. 

Ringo and Paul walked close behind them and Ringo pulled a cig out of his jacket pocket. 

“Got a light?” he asked Paul, and would you believe it, he almost said _no_. Truthfully, he knew how bad smoking was now, or at least cared a little more than he had… but for Ringo, Paul always had a light. He pulled out his lighter and lit the end of Ringo’s cigarette, then stole it out of his hand to take a drag. 

Paul handed the cigarette back to him, and Ringo held it in between his lips for a second before pulling it away again and blowing the smoke up into the air. 

His free hand brushed against Paul’s and Paul took the hint, folding his hand into Ringo’s. 

Paul regretted a lot of things about the way the band broke up, but he mostly regretted how he had acted about the whole thing. It wasn’t really Ringo or either of the other’s faults that they couldn’t understand what he wanted them to play. He had heard a lot of the theories about what caused the band’s break up, but the reporters had hit the nail the hardest with the attitudes each of them held. 

Paul and his perfectionism, John with his innovation, and Ringo and George just fighting to stay fucking relevant amongst it all. 

“‘M sorry.” 

“What for?” Ringo asked, and Paul realized he had said that out loud. 

“I- Well, I’ve probably done something to warrant an apology,” Paul said, and Ringo smiled at him. 

“I can’t think of anything, but thanks anyway.” 

Paul smiled sadly, but Ringo didn’t see. 

He had so much he wanted to apologize for. Fights that hadn’t been fought yet, for _George_ even though that wasn’t his fault, for the whole leaving-the-band thing. But this Ringo didn’t know about any of those things yet, and he wasn’t going to for a while. Paul squeezed Ringo’s hand tightly, not wanting to let go of it for as long as possible. 

He was scared to go back. He was content to let this dream last as long as it possibly could, but he couldn’t fathom how insane it was that he was even there. That he got to pretend like their relationships weren’t going to end in rags. In this moment, things felt terribly unaffected by anything, and Paul wanted to live here forever. 

He wouldn’t let anyone check if he was dreaming or not if that helped, but the reality of the situation weighed down his mind. That this was a dream, and it would end. 

But then Ringo offered him another drag of his cigarette and they had been walking for three blocks without Paul realizing it and now they were at the restaurant John knew. 

Walking in, they headed to the back, praying that no one would recognize them. It seemed no one did, because they sat down and ordered without anyone coming up and asking for a picture or an autograph. Paul decided this was his purchase for the day, and that he would pay all of their tabs. 

The food was out soon, coffee for John and Ringo, (John’s black, and Ringo’s with two creams and one sugar), tea for George and Paul, (Paul’s with just cream and George’s with just sugar), a buttered roll for George, and a plate of bacon and eggs for Paul. 

They ate and drank mostly in comfortable silence, and Ringo started telling a story about Zak. It was strange for Paul to hear this story now, because he knew Zak to be a moody fifteen-year-old, and also because he couldn’t say he related to Ringo in any way, even if he did, because he didn’t _have_ kids yet. He didn’t even have a girlfriend. 

Because a girlfriend meant Linda, and Paul didn’t know Linda yet, and John didn’t know Yoko and they weren’t under all the tension of bigger-than-Jesus and a dead manager and spiritualism. 

Paul was starting to realize how woefully un-complicated his life had been in 1965. 

The rest of them started laughing and Paul laughed too just to seem like he was paying attention and the moment was restored. He was probably going to cry again, so it was a good thing that they had finished their food. 

He glanced up at the clock on the wall, which showed that it was now 1:15 p.m. He pulled out his wallet, left more than enough bills to pay for it all, and then they were all out on the street again. 

It was decided that it was Ringo’s turn to pick next, and he wanted to go to this jewelry shop that was down a little ways. 

John moved back to walk with Paul, and Ringo moved up to George. 

He slid his hand easily into Paul’s and laced their fingers together. 

Paul leaned up against John’s shoulder and sighed. He _was_ crying, but the tears were silent. They tracked down his cold face, but he welcomed them. 

It was nice to revel in the feeling of having someone and knowing that you had them. He knew that John had Cyn, had Julian, that he didn’t get to keep John, and he wouldn’t get to. But… even so, Paul could remember the feeling of being young and in love. Completely un-worried about the future, about what it would mean for the two of them. For some reason, knowing what would happen didn’t bother him right now. All of that felt miles away. 

John looked down at Paul, and if he noticed the tears, he didn’t say anything. He just smiled softly, and leaned down to Paul’s ear. 

“I love you,” he whispered, and more tears pooled in Paul’s eyes. John reached over and brushed them away, and they came to a stop in front of Ringo’s jewelry store. 

Inside, Paul remembered when they pretended to be going to a jewelry store in _Help!._ Looking back, there was a lot wrong with that movie, but, well, it was the 60s. (He knew that wasn’t exactly an excuse, but since it had already happened, he couldn’t change anything about it now).

Ringo and George peered down into the cases of rings, and George was pointing out all the ones that looked the most over-the-top. Those were exactly the kinds Ringo liked best, so it was actually pretty helpful. John took to looking at the chains and earrings, which he wasn’t going to buy, but he wasn’t going to buy anything anyways, so he absently picked at the tiny chains. Paul stood next to George and asked, “Did you already buy a ring?” 

“No,” George said, “But I will.” 

He wouldn’t. Paul knew the story already, and eventually George and Pattie would go buy her ring together after he proposed. Maybe some would think it strange, but Paul thought it was actually kind of cute. 

_Oh how lovers love and then break up_ , Paul thought. It was sad to think of now, but it also made so much sense. Everything beautiful destined to break. Everything that so many yearn for, desperate to become unattainable. 

Ringo eventually picked out a ring with a shiny blue gem, and they left the shop with soft smiles. It was usually that if Ringo was happy, so were the rest of them. George took the ring box from Ringo and took out the ring. He placed it on Ringo’s third finger on his right hand, and Ringo grinned at him. 

Then John stole Ringo’s hand away, and George linked his arm with Paul’s. 

“Where to next?” Paul asked, and George wiggled his eyebrows at him. 

“There’s a new sweet shop about five blocks that way,” George pointed, and pulled Paul along. 

Paul missed George now. He knew how hard he had been on him in the last few years of the band, and that kind of criticism had made their split almost as bad as his and John’s. 

Paul felt like he was being torn apart. How had so much of his life changed so quickly? Fifteen years seemed so much shorter to him now that he was back here, where his world was so small and he didn’t know anything yet. This day felt so removed from everything that would define the life he lived in 1980. 

There was no trip to India, no Linda, no Yoko, no dead Brian, no last concerts, no stopping touring, no Wings, no _All Things Must Pass_ , no _Imagine,_ no _RAM_ . There was just… _this_ , this, them, the whole world all abuzz because of _them_ . There was no real change yet and there were no expectations for their future _at all_. 

Paul must have been zoning out again because George hit him on the arm.

“Are you alrigh’, Paul? You’ve been acting strange all day.”

“I- Yeah… I’m ok, I think.” 

George gave him a look that meant he had to explain.

“I… had a kind of dream, I guess, when I was sleeping in the studio. Makes me wonder about some things.”

“What kind of dream was it?” George asked. 

“Well, it was pretty heavy, actually. I dreamt… I dreamt what the rest of our lives would be like.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, all this stuff that happened to us… and Geo, it seemed so _real_. Like that was really what was going to happen.”

“Wait, wait,” George laughed, “So what happened to us?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” Paul said, “In case it was real.”

“Aw, come on, if it is, that’s what was supposed to happen, and you’ve had a godly vision. Just tell me.”

Paul glanced back at John and Ringo who were lost in their own conversation, and made a face. 

“Ok, but you can’t tell anyone what I said, and you can’t get mad about it.”

“Deal,” George agreed. 

Paul sighed. This would be hard. He would try to only tell the good or vague parts about what happened to them, but what was the good without the bad? 

“We lasted another five years, the band.”

George shrugged, “Seems like enough time.”

“But the reason we broke up was because of a big row we all had. John got married again, and I got married, and we stopped seeing each other, and all of us stopped being friends. Which didn’t matter that much because we were still pretty successful musicians and shit, but then, Geo, God it’s horrible… John got shot… and he died… and…” Paul was crying for the third or fourth time today now. 

“Oh, calm down, Paulie,” George said, rubbing Paul’s shoulder, “It was only a dream. Look, we’re all here now, and we’re alive, aren’t we? So you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Yes,” Paul agreed, and he accepted George’s comfort. He understood that he would probably talk to George soon regarding the events of 1980 he had left, but the comfort that would be shared between the two couldn’t possibly be like this. 

They walked in silence for the rest of the way, but it was nice, and Paul realized how he had taken these quiet moments with his friends for granted time and time again. 

When they stepped into the store, Paul was instantly hypnotized by the smell of chocolate. 

They stood in the shop by themselves and looked at all the sweets for sale. George picked up a bag and started to fill it with practically everything. John picked one bar of chocolate and brought it to the counter. 

The man rang him up and then looked at John for a second longer. 

“You’re one of those Beatles, aren’t you?” He looked around at them, “Christ, that’s all of you!”

“Oh, please don’t call the papers,” John fake-pleaded with the man, “We’re just trying to have a nice day out without all that rubbish.”

The man chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not exactly ready to have my store stormed by a bunch of girls just desperate to touch something you’ve touched. Won’t even ask for an autograph.”

Paul smiled softly at the man, and Ringo thanked him. George went to pay for his bag of candy, and John came over to Paul. 

He opened the chocolate bar he had bought and broke off a piece, offering it to him. 

Paul smiled at him and accepted it, placing it in his mouth. It was milky and sweet, and John smirked at the blissful face he was making. 

When George was finished, they went out again and it was John’s turn to pick where they would go. He went back to holding hands with Paul, and instead of saying where he was taking them, he just led them there. 

John noticed that Paul was starting to drift off into thought again, so he poked Paul in the side. Paul poked him back and they were having a tickle fight in the street until a few passerby came around the corner and they had to stop before they were caught. John looked down and then smiled over at Paul, and he wanted John to look at him like that for the rest of his life. 

They arrived where John was taking them, a tiny little park that had a nice place to sit. It was quiet and calm, and it fit perfectly into Paul’s dream day. 

They sat down on the ground, Paul leaning up against John’s chest, and George and Ringo leaning in close to each other. Paul closed his eyes and let John play with his hair. 

There was a feeling of contentment that so pleasantly encapsulated Paul. He was warm and his heart buzzed with electricity. There were a million things he wasn’t worried about. 

He was remembering now, their desperation to get away from this… this _image_ fame had turned them into. But here, where it was just them, Paul wondered why he had ever tried to do that. Here, where it was not the way they were perceived, just the way they were friends… but he forgave himself for the division anyway. He had a long time ago. When they split up, when they made their own way in the world, they were trying to leave behind all the fake things that the media had turned them into. They just hadn’t realized that they were also leaving behind the real parts of themselves that had been friends. 

If Paul tried to look at it all from any other angle, he was going to find that it was a circle, or rather a blob. Everything pointed to something else, every miniature decision had some big impact. There were too many thoughts swimming in his mind. He had forgotten to enjoy himself. Paul opened his eyes to see John looking down at him, complete adoration on his face. 

Paul leaned up to press a tiny kiss to John’s nose, and John smiled the softest smile. Paul relished in his ability to turn the famous John Lennon into mush. 

John turned Paul around to kiss him properly, and Paul knew… he knew he had to leave. Another kiss, another blissful moment in fake paradise was going to make him want to stay forever, so he had to go. 

Paul had always sort of thought John was magic, but he could really feel it right in this moment. 

John kissed him once more, long and slow and sweet. Paul smiled and John whispered against his lips, “You can always come back.”

Paul looked at him then, and John nodded. Paul turned back around, and John looped his arms around his waist.  
  


“I love you,” Paul said to George. 

“And I, you,” George said, grinning to reveal his pointy teeth. 

“I love you,” Paul said to Ringo. 

“I love you too,” Ringo smiled, and went back to attempting to discreetly tickle George with pieces of grass. 

“And I love you,” Paul said to John. 

“I know,” he said, and pulled Paul in to lean on his chest. Paul inhaled the sweet scent of cigarettes and cinnamon, and he fell asleep easily. 

When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer resting in John’s arms but rather the back of the armchair in his living room. 

His first thought was to go to the phone and call up John to tell him about the dream he just had, but… _oh._

Paul looked outside, and he saw that it was morning now. Early morning, maybe 6:00 or 6:30, but morning nonetheless. 

The phone rang from the office, and Paul went to answer it. 

“Hello,” he said after picking it up. 

“You were right,” came the voice from the end of the line. 

“Excuse me?” Paul asked. “Who is this?”

“God, it’s not been that long, has it? We saw each other just last year,” George said. 

“George?” Paul asked in disbelief. 

“Well who else would it be?” he said, laughing a little. 

“I- Wait. What was I right about?”

“Your dream, don’t you remember? What was it-”

“‘65,” Paul said. 

“Yeah… well, it’s come true, then, you had a godly vision.”

“Huh,” was all Paul could say. _How completely bizarre._ _He was quite certain it had been a dream, but..._

“I- um, he’s-, fucking _shit_ ,” George was saying, not quite able to get the words right, and from the state of his voice Paul could tell he had been crying. 

“I know,” Paul whispered, fully understanding. 

Then there was silence from both of them, but it wasn’t comforting like it had been and instead was very awkward, so Paul said, “Well-” and George said, “Yeah-” and they hung up their phones. 

Paul put his head in his hands and started to _really_ cry. Ugly tears dripped down his nose and chin, he was trying not to be loud but the sobs kept getting choked in his throat. It _hurt_ , it actually physically hurt, and there was nothing he could do. 

Linda came down a half hour later, and she didn’t know what to do. 

“Paul, did you sp- Paul? What’s wrong?” She asked, coming to kneel by Paul who had at some point fallen out of his chair and onto the floor.

Paul looked up at her, tears still spilling from his eyes, and she came over next to him. 

“What’s wrong, Paul? Please tell me.”

“It’s- John-” Paul choked again on his heaving breaths, “he’s… someone- they shot him.”

Linda gasped. “Oh! Is he alright?”

“No-” Paul spluttered, “No- he’s- he’s _dead_.”

Linda burst into tears, and wrapped her arms around Paul’s neck, crying into his shoulder. Paul held her close and they stayed together on the floor of his office, crying together until the children came downstairs. 

In the next few weeks, Paul tried not to go out. He knew as soon as he did, people would swarm him, desperate for a reaction or a quote or _something_ they could publish besides, “Paul McCartney… George Harrison… Ringo Starr… was unavailable for comment.”

Paul didn’t even feel like going outside, and the days complied with his wishes to stay indoors. It rained and it was freezing cold, and there was no reason to go out anyway. 

But one day, the sun was making a rare appearance, there didn’t actually happen to be anyone _at_ his house besides him, and he went to stand out in the back garden, just soaking it up. 

When he came back inside, he heard the phone ring, and went to pick it up. 

“Hello?”

“Hello,” came the deep voice. 

“Ringo?” Paul asked. 

“How are you?” Ringo said. 

“I- I suppose I could be… well, better. I think I feel alright today, though.”

Ringo hummed, and the phone buzzed against Paul’s ear. 

“What about you?”

“Well, you know,” Ringo said, “I’m never quite alright these days.”

Paul knew. He had, after George had called him that week, checked to see if George and Pattie had… well he checked, and nothing _had_ changed, but there was still the matter of whether or not that day had been a dream. He decided to ask Ringo. 

“Ringo?” Paul asked. 

“Yes?”

“Do you remember that day in London?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Ringo laughed lightly. 

“That day… must have been the last time with Liverpool Rules…”

“Oh yeah, I remember,” Ringo said. “You were off your arse on something, crying and laughing and persuading us to skip recording… They really let us have it for that.”

“‘T was fun though, wasn’t it?” Paul asked. 

“Yeah…” Ringo sighed, “It was. I- that was all I wanted to say, but Paul?”

“Mmm?”

“Everyone’s been saying, ‘sorry for your loss’ and that shit, but I wanted… I know what he meant… I wanted to say I really am sorry, Paul. I can’t quite know how it must feel, but you must be a sight worse than me an’ George. And we’re pretty bad.”

A tear dripped down Paul’s nose. 

“I know,” he whispered. And then he was caught in another awkward silence so he said, “Goodbye,” and Ringo said the same, and they hung up their phones. 

_So it hadn’t been a dream at all._ But Paul was quite past whatever it had really been, because it had _happened_. He had gotten the chance to spend a day with his friends again, just as they used to be. He had gotten to see something perfectly extraordinary, and he kept this wonderfully illegal knowledge close to himself. 

He stood up and went to the window. 

Outside, the sun dipped down in between the trees, and it was positively _beautiful_. Paul found his camera and went outside to photograph it. 

He was thinking how much he wished John could see it, but a swelling feeling in his heart said he could. 

That night, Paul slept through till the morning, and when he woke up, the smell of cinnamon and cigarettes, a smell that hadn’t been around Paul for years, lingered in his sheets. The last few words John had said in that not-dream rang in his ears, and he smiled softly, knowing now that they were true.

Paul took a deep breath in, and for whatever reason, things felt like they were going to be ok. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi! thank you so much for reading, and i hope you didn't cry too much, (it's ok if you didn't too lol) let me know what you thought <33


End file.
